


After Party

by Hoodie_2_Shoes



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Body Worship, Drunk Sex, M/M, One Shot, Oral Sex, POV Second Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Trans Male Character, post-epilogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 06:40:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29679936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hoodie_2_Shoes/pseuds/Hoodie_2_Shoes
Summary: Dionysus drawls out a laugh and pins your wrists above your head. “What was it Lady Aphrodite called you, ‘little godling’? Oh man, if anyone on Olympus sees you like this...”He leans down to kiss your neck, his stubble a wildfire.“They’d eat you alive.”
Relationships: Dionysus (Hades Video Game)/Reader, Dionysus/Zagreus (Hades Video Game)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 64





	After Party

**Author's Note:**

> This one is for my Dionysus lovers out there who have broken controllers staring at his thunder thighs. I wish i was kidding
> 
> Beta-ed by the ever lovely quietfaun! Any remaining errors are my own.
> 
> _This fic features a trans male character receiving oral sex, including brief references to anatomy with terms such as "slit", "folds", "nub" and others. If they make you uncomfortable, please click away!_

“One more and we’re done. Trust me, man.”

Lord Dionysus raises the goblet before your nose. The reluctance in your smile seemingly eludes his eyes, half-lidded with a purple haze. 

He sinks further down the recliner, his flowing violet hair free from its braid and tossed over the backrest, leaving grapes tumbling down your cushion. His hand tips worryingly until you have no choice but to receive the goblet, seeing double as the wine swirls and the gemstones around the rim dance beneath the light. How many of these have you downed? Eight? Ten? Back in the hall where the feast was held, you could tell the beverage was nothing like ambrosia from the first sip: sharper on the tongue and dizzyingly rich if not as sweet, bearing the faintest scent of grass and earth. 

It was repulsive, truth be told. But there’s no way Lord Dionysus needs to have his feelings hurt, does he? Not with his puppy-like giddiness as he poured you another. So you drank, one goblet after the other, taking shots in the dark on the metaphorical ways your senses find it pleasant and pray he doesn’t see through your bluff. The reactions of the other gods were all you had to go by, but judging from Lady Aphrodite’s affirming nods, your answers weren’t too far off. 

Seriously though. ‘The aroma of wet wool’? And they bought it?

Then the strangest thing happened. While the first three goblets tasted like blood mixed with iron and took a dip in the Phlegethon, there’s an aftertaste in the fourth. Almost… fruity. The zest of pomegranates, you realized, cutting through the sharpness and settling like a feather on your lips. 

Your eyes grew wide. The god of wine saw it, too. He offered you a sly _I_ _-told-you_ smile as more poured from his tiny cup that, if not for the gods’ magic, would surely hold no more than two mouthfuls. 

Your sigh of surprise was genuine after the sixth, when you caught hints of berries and herbs Mother had meticulously grown in the gardens. Then a peculiar tingling sensation, one Eurydice had dubbed ‘spicy’ during your last visit as you set down her latest dish and begged for some nectar. 

But it wasn’t an unpleasant taste, not at all. It tasted like autumn, or how your mother would describe it. It reminded you of the winds in Elysium rolling across plains of green, of heartache and madness and sin. 

It reminded you of the scent of Dionysus’ hair. 

You have no idea what happened at the feast after. A blink, and here you are, in your own chambers, lying on the recliner your father deemed a worthless expenditure, next to the god of wine whose eyes are now as muddy as the Styx. 

“Don’t you trust me, man?” he slurs. “Made this just for you! All the flavors you never knew you craved… hmm… right here. You’re not gonna let me down, are you?”

Dionysus slumps forward, leaning on your shoulder with a soft but desperate hold. Even in your dulled senses, the touch of an Olympian makes your skin crawl, all fuzzy and electric and full of light. Your eyes shift to a purple stain on his chiton that you hope isn’t your doing, trailing down to where the silken fabric ends. His thigh pressed against your own, the metal band above his knee cold to the touch. 

And you wonder, in a dark corner of your alcohol-laden mind, whether he had noticed you staring underneath his garments before, through the visage of his blessings. 

“Come on, your cousin just wants you to have a good time, that’s all! Take the edge off a little!” 

And it soon matters little whether you complied out of pressure or your own will. Dionysus’ laugh fills the room the second your lips touch the rim, and your heart flutters at the sound. 

The wine goes down like liquid ecstasy. You almost cry out as it burns your throat, but with a fire that soothes and aches all at once. The flavors unfold like the colors of a sunrise: red after purple after gold, one upon the other as they bloom on the tip of your tongue and rush through your veins.

“My man!” he exclaims and leans in close, the sickly sweet fragrance on his breath stronger than the drink itself. “Twelve cups of my strongest wine, no problem! You really are something else, man.”

You don’t spare a breath to thank him because what better way to please the god of wine than to empty the goblet bottoms-up before his very eyes? You drain the glass with a gasp, and Dionysus rubs your shoulder, crossing his legs over the recliner. The fabric rides further up his thigh, almost dissolving under the light.

You part your eyes, feeling your cheeks burn. The wine rushing through your system, must be.

Must be.

Your mind rattles, every voice inside screaming at you to purge your thoughts because who knows what else the Olympians are capable of? Reading minds doesn’t sound like a stretch when one literally grants you the gift of lightning. Gods, what if Lady Aphrodite is nearby? She would’ve smelled the lust dripping off you like you’re Cerberus going three centuries without a bath.

An overwrought face peers back from the Mirror of Night. Within the reflection, you watch, frozen, as Dionysus reaches for your face. 

“You spilled some, right here,” he says. “Allow me.” 

You sense a brief flash of hesitation when he brings his hand to your jaw and grabs your chin, his knuckle curled as he draws his thumb over the trail of wine just beneath your lower lip. You almost lean into him when he pulls away, trying to catch his lingering touch. 

Your heart pounds in its chamber, a thunderous sound. 

_You’re killing me here, Lord Dionysus._

You didn’t mean to say that out loud. 

(Did you?) 

A curious look bloomed on the god of wine’s face. His eyelashes fluttered. Again, your eyes fix on his hair, how full and soft and lustrous it looks. You want to run your fingers through his hair so badly but end up clenching your fists and let fingernails dig into your skin.

“I could say the same to you, man.” Dionysus shifts, and suddenly he’s looming over you, the glint in his eyes a wondrous and terrible thing. “Didn’t think I’d miss those dirty looks you throw my way, did you now?” He takes your jaw in his hand. “Say the word and I’m yours.”

There’s a sharp buzzing between your ears.

You say the word, and the god of wine smiles. 

(Gods, his smile.)

You open up readily when Dionysus closes in. He straddles your lap, cornering you against the seat, and the world dims ever so slightly under his predatory gaze. It proves to be fleeting as a smirk takes its place. 

The feeling of his stubble beneath your fingertips is electric. 

The taste of his lips staggers you, fills your mouth, and rushes to your head in a stampede. Dionysus holds you steady as he slots himself between your legs, kissing you slow between jagged moans. A heavy sweetness clings to the tongue that spreads you open, and you breathe him in. 

It nearly knocks you out cold. 

You could’ve sworn you see him with your eyes closed, his heavy brows dancing and his nose brushing your own, stealing glances at the offering he’s about to devour. 

You want to taste more of him. All of him.

“Oh, but you will.”

The world tips and you find yourself beneath him, his knees splayed across your chest and his face cloaked in shadow. You lay restless beneath his gaze, your breathing heavy. 

(There are worse places to be than between Lord Dionysus’ thighs right now.)

He shrugs off his chiton, letting the fabric fall around his waist, his back arched in an unholy curve. Your hands, impetuous little things, reach for the small of his back to hold him close. Close enough to plant kisses along his chest and midriff, to worship every inch of his skin. 

Dionysus grips the back of your head to urge you on. You fall freely into his hold, letting go so you can run your hands across his bare chest. You feel something erupt low in your gut when the god of wine shudders from your touch. 

He spreads his legs wider still. With fumbling hands you untie the loincloth beneath his chiton, tugging until his garments come free. His slit peers back at you, slick and puffy and flaunting a deep, beguiling red. 

It takes a moment to register, but surprise quickly gives way to a hunger that hollows you out and leaves you aching. A tug on your hair yanks you back, and Dionysus’ face bears down on you, a grin clinging to his flushed cheeks.

“Like what you see?” 

A soft groan escapes your throat. Of embarrassment or arousal, you dare not say.

“Wish you could see your face right now, man.” Dionysus drawls out a laugh and pins your wrists above your head. “What was it Lady Aphrodite called you, ‘little godling’? Oh man, if anyone on Olympus sees you like this...”

He leans down to kiss your neck, his stubble a wildfire.

“They’d eat you alive.”

_They would have to go through you, now, wouldn’t they?_

“Might be open to share, who knows?” He laughs. “I have no shortage of lovers in my realm, and the realm beneath it. But here, in the underworld, my uncle’s domain...”

Dionysus purrs into your ear, “How does it feel, knowing you’re my first and only?”

_Better make sure it stays that way, then._

“Aphrodite’s totally rubbing off on you, man.” Dionysus tuts disapprovingly, sitting up while he rubs lazy circles on your chest. “Why don’t you show me if you’re worth the trouble?”

And you find yourself wrapped in his heat, and you sink and sink until his weight sits heavily on your face, and that’s when you start to drown. Your arms wrap hungrily around his thighs, parting them until you’re nestled snugly in the gap between his legs. 

His purple fuzz tickles your nose. The musk hits you blind—earthy, heady, and strong enough to make your knees twitch. 

You start with a kiss, then gentle nibbles along the lip while you rub up and down his thighs, pulling him closer. Dionysus’ breath is labored, his body swaying as he melts around you. 

Your tongue, carefully at first, starts to pry and prod, flat against his mounds then working its way up to lick along the folds and draw obscene noises from the god of wine himself. 

“Gods, that’s it...”

The tip of your tongue rolls up to tease his swollen nub, and Dionysus explodes, a shrill cry ripped from his throat. 

_Everyone’s going to hear._

“You forgetting who you’re dealing with?” Dionysus pants. “Parties and getting people wasted are my bread and butter, man. Now all you need to concern yourself with— _ungh, right there_ —is to keep this up, yeah? ”

An uproar comes muffled through the walls, one you’re too occupied to investigate its source. You bury yourself in his sex, relishing the wobble in his knees as he doubles over moaning. 

His fingers rake through your hair. Dionysus calls your name, over and over, steeped in a drunken aftertaste and muffled by the wet suckling noise from your mouth. His nethers are soaked through and through, slick running down your chin and coating your lips something warm and bitter. You grab his skittish hands, locking them behind his back to rid him of support, and watch him writhe with trembling lips and his head lolled back. 

“Father almighty that tongue of yours is _heavenly_.”

His arms fight half-heartedly against your grip. Each lap of your tongue coaxes him open, and you’re drowning in his heat, his moans, his intoxicating scent that coils around your throat and leaves you short of wind.

His thighs throttle you desperately, and there’s nothing to do but to thrust your tongue deeper, his cries just short of screaming. 

“Fuck, you’re doing so good, man...”

That’s when you start getting cheeky, isn’t it? When you could’ve given the man what he wants, you pull out instead, leaving him empty and aching and dripping all over. Dionysus gasps, his hands nearly slipping from yours. You part your lips to close around his groin and suck in your breath, not letting go even when his legs threaten to crush you. 

“By the _gods_...”

Dionysus’ back gives out with a violent lurch, the pressure building and building until you feel his spasm, his body taut as a bowstring. And he spills in no time at all, the buzz rolling off him in waves as he fills your mouth with a sweetness that makes the back of your throat tingle. 

For a second he just sits there, chest heaving and failing to find his breath.

Even then you don’t let go, your eyes catching his in the light while he rides off his climax. When his breathing returns and he slips from your grip, Dionysus falls forwards, leaning his head against the headrest as his hair falls around your face.

You reach up, running your hand down his head full of hair. It feels like something that belongs to the heavens, like the clouds that adorn your first sunrise. You wait with bated breath for your hands to catch fire until Dionysus tilts his head so it flows into your palm in a steady stream. 

It’s every bit as lovely as you imagine it to be.

A laugh, blissfully drained, leaves his throat. “We need to get you drunk more often, man.”

_Anything that gets you off that fancy mountain of yours and onto my recliner._

“Aww, no reason to get all sentimental,” he says. “You didn’t think I’d leave you hanging here, did you?”

Dionysus’s hips slide down your body, against your loins that still seek release, and you whisper a prayer for whatever follows.

“Don’t think for a second I’m done with you.”

\---

**Author's Note:**

> This was written before I stumbled across the fact that Dionysus is sometimes worshipped as the patron god for trans folks, and you can imagine how giddy I was for the Big Man himself to plant this idea in my head in a drunken haze. 
> 
> If anyone who knows people at Supergiant sees this, we really need the Dionysus wall scroll in the merch store. It's what Dionysus would've wanted. 
> 
> Comments very much appreciated:’)
> 
> Find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/hoodie_2_shoes)!


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